


Der Foltertisch

by KoreArabin



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows (2010)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Gags, M/M, Non Consensual, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoreArabin/pseuds/KoreArabin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Yes, Sir, it is your apparatus of correction - your <i>torture table</i>, Sir.  I do know it."</p>
<p>"And I shall hurt you upon it today; no, not <i>hurt</i> you.  I shall <i>torture</i> you on it.  You shall indeed be my erstwhile whipping boy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Der Foltertisch

**Author's Note:**

> For [Eryn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eryn/pseuds/Eryn)

Moran finds it difficult to know what he should do when the Professor is incensed. As he is now; not with ranting, violent anger or, indeed, any obvious outward show of emotion. Just a tight, white-lipped silence, and a restlessness which only hints at the maelstrom of emotions raging beneath the civilised, educated, _academic_ , exterior.

When the Professor summons him to his "laboratory", Moran knows that the Professor's violent, sadistic anger has to be given vent.

"Colonel. Sebastian. Sherlock Holmes yet defies me. He understands all too clearly my superiority over him, from his pathetic mooning over that _American_ woman to his delicacy over his pet doctor's marriage. Yet he still challenges me. I shall not have it. I shall not!"

Moriarty's eyes are dark with his suppressed rage and, as he turns to his marksman, Moran knows that today will be a day of suffering for him, a whipping boy for the sins of another; for that sodding consulting detective's continual bloody prying into his Master's affairs, damn him.

The Professor's voice is quiet, silken.

"Colonel. Strip."

Moran removes his clothes apprehensively, folding them tidily on a side table. Once he is totally naked, the Professor beckons him forward, grasping his testicles in a gloved hand, leading him ("by the balls", Sebastian thinks, "how appropriate",) to his _apparatus_.

"You know what this is, do you not, Sebastian? You know its purpose?"

"Yes, Sir, it is your apparatus of correction - your _torture table_ , Sir. I do know it."

" _Auf Deutsch, bitte. Mein Liebster_."

" _Ihr Foltertisch, Meister_."

" _Danke. Sehr gut_ , Sebastian. And I shall hurt you upon it today; no, not _hurt_ you. I shall _torture_ you on it. You shall indeed be my erstwhile whipping boy."

The Professor forces him back against the wooden frame bolted to the floor of the room. Leather straps hang from the frame, and Moriarty takes little time in securing his sniper's wrists to those beside his head. His ankles are similarly restrained, wide apart, to the corners of the table. Once the Professor is satisfied that his marksman is stretched out and unable to move, arms above his head and legs spread wide, he takes a piece of leather from the Gladstone bag stowed beneath the table. The leather is soft, yet sturdy, flexible, whilst thick. Moriarty secures it over Moran's eyes, tying off the ends tightly behind his head. 

Moriarty considers his bound lover; he wants - he _needs_ \- a release for his venomous rage at Holmes' _presumption_ in interferring in his carefully laid stratagems, but he doesn't want to injure his tiger permanently. 

The Professor has an amazingly eclectic range of implements at his disposal when considering how to hurt another person, from the "toys" he and his tiger play with to the nastier, blood-splattered, tools of punishment he or his minions use on those who so foolishly cross him. Now he wants something to pierce his tiger's anus; something to keep him focussed; something to remind him that he's owned, and even his most private parts can be casually penetrated by his owner.

A length of metal piping appears to fit the bill, a foot or so in length and a good inch in diameter. The Professor slicks it up with a pat of butter from the supper tray abandoned in his study. Such a waste of wonderful British fayre, otherwise. Moran twitches slightly as Moriarty probes at his entrance with the end of the piping, gasping quietly as it pushes into him, holding his sphincter open, impaled, but only just. The Professor twists and jabs the end of the piping into the restrained man, eliciting more gasps and a moan of pain.

But, the Professor wants more, today. He takes a folding metal rule and flicks it open, watching Moran's head move fractionally as he attempts to follow the Professor's movements and anticipate what is in store for him. Moriarty brings the metal down hard on the tender flesh of Moran's inner thigh, catching the piping as he does so, producing a shout of surprise and pain from his marksman. Again and again he brings the rule down, up and down the insides of Moran's thighs, on his shins and the soles of his feet. Sebastian twists in the restraints, writhing as he cries out in pain, attempting to close his legs and protect the sensitive flesh of his inner thighs.

"An exercise in futility, Sebastian. You know that you cannot escape your restriants, and I shall not free you until I am ready to do so." Pursing his lips and tipping back his head, the Professor regards Moran's genitalia - the balls drawn up tight against his body, his cock shrivelled and flaccid. Not even his loyal chief of staff finds this type of pain arousing. He drags the end of the ruler lightly down over the soft cock, over Sebastian's testicles and digs the end into his perineum. Sensing what the Professor is about to do, Sebastian thrashes, a loud, "No, no - Professor - please!" bursting from him just as Moriarty brings the rule down hard on his cock.

Sebastian's head snaps back, electrically, and he screams. Hmmmm. Too much noise. Moriarty retrieves a thick leather bit gag from the bag, and forces it between the sniper's lips, buckling the straps tightly behind his head. 

"Whilst I would normally savour the screams and cries of pain from one so laid out for my attentions, I imagine that cook and the other servants may not. So, you shall be deprived of your roar, for now, at least, my tiger. But I shall still enjoy the muted whimpers of a beast restrained."

Moriarty strikes at Sebastian's testicles and penis repeatedly, whilst he struggles convulsively on the table, able to produce only garbled oaths and muffled howls of pain from behind the thick gag. Only when Moriarty is satisfied that he has produced as much pain as he possibly can without incurring the risk of permanent injury, and Sebastian's cries of pain have subsided to muted sobbing, does he desist, placing the ruler aside and stroking Sebastian's face through the damp leather of the blindfold.

"Hush, hush, _mein Liebster_. You are doing so very well. You knew, _Schatzi_ , did you not, from the outset of your employment with me, the outset of our _relationship_ , that this would be part of your duties. That you would be _mein Prügelknabe_ , hmmmm? There is but one thing more I wish to do to you, and then I shall release you and you can rest."

Sebastian turns his blindfolded face towards him, nuzzling against the soft stroking. Without a second's hesitation, Moriarty slaps him hard with his open palm, snapping Moran's head back in the opposite direction. 

The Professor's exertions and the pain he has inflicted on his marksman have aroused him intensely, and he knows that Moran will expect him to take him, roughly, over the table as a dénouement to their activities today. He pulls the piping roughly from Sebastian's anus, tossing it aside with a clatter, and unbuckles his ankles. It is relatively easy to flip the bound man over, his wrists still strapped to the top of the table, and force him to kneel up with legs spread, clearly desperate not to have his bruised and swollen genitals pressed against the rough table top.

Sebastian is still vaguely lubricated from the butter earlier but that's hardly a concern of the Professor's. So long as Moran is not tight or dry enough to hurt him as he thrusts into him, he cares little for the sniper's pain. He sheathes himself in Sebastian's tight passage in one hard thrust, and sets up a brutal rhythm, focussing only on his own pleasure and his own release. On how utterly satisfying it would be to have the meddling, insufferable Sherlock Holmes here before him, totally humiliated, totally mastered, totally _beaten_. 

With that image in mind, as well as the freckled and well-muscled back of his marksman flexing before him, the moans from behind the gag sounding - most improbably - like sounds of pleasure rather than pain, the Professor groans aloud as his semen spills hotly deep inside his bound lover, continuing to jerk sporadically against Sebastian's backside until he is totally spent.

He pulls out, cleaning his softening member on a handkerchief before buttoning up his trousers and unbuckling Sebastian's gag and blindfold, and then freeing him from his restraints. Sebastian's eyes are red and crusted, and his cock and balls look quite horrific, even to the Professor's somewhat jaded eyes, striped red and purple and rather swollen. Sebastian won't be out on the prowl for casual sexual liaisons for some time, he muses. But now he needs to bathe and have some soothing healing ointment applied before sleep.

As Sebastian soaks in the not too hot bath, the Professor strokes his hair comfortingly. "I am extremely happy with you, Sebastian. You took what I gave you quite remarkably today, and have restored me to my usual state of calmness, despite that infernal detective's meddling. We shall forget _die Forelle_ for the time being, and I shall concentrate my energies on you, _mein Liebster_."

And Sebastian's last thought, before he drifts to sleep by the Professor's side, soothed and exhausted, is that he really must ask him tomorrow what a Forelle is.


End file.
